The sun was hot; the water hole was dry; the cattle were dying of thirst. Everything was crying for ——WATER Ross SanteeThe sun was hot! Smith looked at the water hole. There was no water in it."Well," he said, "no water, no farm!""Perhaps there is water deeper down, under the mud," I said.Smith did not look at me. He started to dig in the hole. I did not help him. I was pushing the cattle away from us. They crowded around in the hole looking for water. They got down on their knees in the mud crying for water. They were dying of thirst.Smith got out of the hole. He stood again just looking down. There was no water. Then he grew angry. He said he hoped it would never rain again. He shook his hands at the sky and shouted against God and nature. Then he went to his horse. He did not speak on the way back to the farmhouse. I did not say anything either. There was nothing to say. The water hole was dry. It was the end for Smith, the farmer, for the cattle and for the farm.It was difficult for Smith to understand, or believe; for his wife too. I thought about her as we rode over the dry earth to the farmhouse. Yesterday I had seen her on her knees in front of the house."God, give us rain," she was saying in a low voice. Over and over again she prayed for rain.I do not understand how she could listen to the cattle crying for water and not lose control of herself. They cried all day and all night. Their terrible cries never stopped. I wanted to put something in my ears so that I would not hear them any more. We could still hear them when we went inside the house. None of us could escape from their cries. The food was ready when Smith and I rode up to the farm. His wife was smiling as usual while her hands were shaking. Smith was quiet now. And he had not that wild look in his eyes any more.When she turned on the light, I could see deep lines of worry on her face. Then I looked closely at Smith. He had grown ten years older in that one day. We all sat down around at the table in the warm kitchen. She did not touch the food or drink the coffee.Once—many weeks ago when the sun first grew hot—she told me she could not drink water when we knew the cattle were dying of thirst. Nobody spoke. She looked at Smith. He was not eating, either. Finally he pushed his food away. I knew he was deeply troubled, but all he said to her was, "You know about it?"She nodded and pushed some gray hair away from her face. When she spoke, her voice was firm."I know," she said. "The water hole went dry today."I felt heavy when I saw her try to smile. I walked outside. It was better to leave them alone.I looked up at the dark sky. Black clouds were moving low over the hills. A long time ago clouds like that meant rain. But not any more. Tomorrow's sun would burn them away. A full moon was rising over the mountains. I had watched it rise two years ago from this same place. It was the night I came to work for Smith.In those days it was a good farm with healthy horses to ride and fat cattle. There had been many rains then and the water holes were full. The farm fields were covered with grass. Every hill was green and the cattle had food. Smith had more water than any other farmer in Arizona. 

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